Forty-Six - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 96

The higher ground was also undoubtedly bringing colder
temperatures. Without a thermometer I couldn't tell how
low but I noticed the difference in the environment around
me. Moisture hung in the air as tiny particles of ice reflecting
the light which made everything sparkle as if sprinkled with
glitter and the snow surface became a patchwork of flat,
shiny crystals, like miniature shards of glass. My body felt the
drop in temperature too. It wasn't only the sudden need to be
constantly working my toes and fingers all day, but also the
fact that exposure to the cold was now painful. My pee-stops
had gone from being simply unpleasant to positive agony. It
was impossible to remove my big mitts for more than a few
seconds without the sting of numbness setting in, so I struggled
with zip pulls and layers without removing them. In an effort
to keep myself hydrated in the dry atmosphere I was drinking
up to four litres of liquid a day which meant that I needed
to pee at almost every break. Even if I faced into wind and
squatted close to my sledges for shelter, the moment of exposure
was never brief enough to be comfortable. I began to avoid
stopping altogether, eating on the move and deliberately not
drinking so much. I knew I was dehydrating myself and I knew
how stupid this was (I had berated my teams often enough for
similar offences). Dehydration slows the circulation and makes
extremities more susceptible to the cold. Even knowing this,
avoiding regular plunges into the freezing air seemed to be a
more urgent matter of survival.
Before leaving the UK I had decided that for precisely this
reason it was time to learn how to pee like a man. Digging out
from my store of kit the small plastic device designed for the
purpose, I'd stood in my bathroom at home and told myself
that the key to mastering this new skill was practice. Standing